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Ready in heart and ready in hand,
March with banner and bugle and fife
To the death, for their native land.

Maud with her exquisite face,

And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky,
And feet like sunny gems on an English green;
Maud in the light of her youth and her grace,
Singing of Death, and of Honor that cannot die,
Till I well could weep for a time so sordid and


And myself so languid and base.

Silence, beautiful voice,

Be still, for you only trouble the mind
With a joy in which I cannot rejoice,
A glory I shall not find.

Still! I will hear you no more;

For your sweetness hardly leaves me a choice
But to move to the meadow, and fall before
Her feet on the meadow grass, and adore,
Not her, who is neither courtly nor kind,
Not her, not her, but a voice.



See the chariot at hand here of Love

Wherein my lady rideth!

Each that draws is a swan or a dove,

And well the car Love guideth.


As she goes, all hearts do duty

Unto her beauty,

And enamoured do wish so they might
But enjoy such a sight;

That they still were to run by her side,


Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.

Do but look on her eyes, they do light

All that Love's world compriseth;

Do but look on her hair, it is bright
As Love's star when it riseth:

Do but mark, her forehead's smoother
Than words that soothe her.

And from her arched brows such a grace
Sheds itself through the face,

As alone there triumphs to the life

All the gain, all the good of the element's strife

Have you seen a bright lily grow,

Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall o' the snow Before the soil hath smutched it?

Have you felt the wool of the Beaver?

Or Swan's down ever?

Or have smelt of the bud of the brier?
Or the Nard in the fire?

Or have tasted the bag of the bee?

O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!



Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds
Or bends with the remover to remove;
O no; it is an ever-fixéd mark,

That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error, and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.



Fare thee well! and if forever,
Still forever, fare thee well!
Even though unforgiving, never

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

Would that heart were bared before thee
Where thy head so oft has lain,


While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again :
Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show!
Then thou wouldst at last discover
"Twas not well to spurn it so,

Though the world for this commend thee,
Founded on another's woe.
Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other aim be found
Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?
Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not;
Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away;

Still thine own its life retaineth;

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth, Is-that we no more may meet.

These are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the dead;
Both shall live, but every morrow
Wake us from a widowed bed.
And when thou wouldst solace gather,
When our child's first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!"
Though his care she must forego?


When her little hands shall press thee,

When her lip to thine is pressed,

Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, Think of him thy love had blessed!

Should her lineaments resemble

Those thou never more mayst see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.
All my faults perchance thou knowest,
All my madness none can know;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,
Whither, yet with thee they go.
Every feeling hath been shaken;
Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee,-by thee forsaken,
Even my soul forsakes me now;
But 'tis done-all words are idle,-
Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way without the will.
Fare thee well! thus disunited,

Torn from every nearer tie,

Seared in heart, and love, and blighted,— More than this I scarce can die.



If mine I could but call thee,

How blest my lot would be!

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